Does It Hurt? (16)

Inhaling deeply, I face the mirror, averting my eyes as I set the gun back into the sink.

My very illegal gun, but I couldn’t resist. In the U.S., I had bought one from some shady dude for protection, but I had to leave it behind in order to travel. Here, gun laws are extremely strict, and obtaining one is nearly impossible in my predicament.

I had been walking past a shooting range when I got the stupid idea. A man had just finished up and put his handgun into a padlocked case in the trunk of his car and his ammo in a second locked case next to it. I hid behind a tree on the sidewalk while he ran back into the building, muttering to himself about having to pee. He didn’t even bother locking his car, too distracted by nature’s call.

I didn’t think at that moment, I just acted. I tiptoed to his car, opened the trunk, and stole both cases. Thankfully, my hotel was only a few blocks away, but my heart was nearly beating out of my chest the entire way back.

After, I was forced to find a hardware store to break into the damn things, though once I had the weapon in my hands, I felt like I could breathe again.

Blowing out a slow breath, I grab my brush from the bowl, then resume lathering the chemicals onto my roots, hands shaking. My natural brown has been coming through, and about once every couple of months, I make it my life’s mission to expunge it from existence.

I hate this shit, but I think my abused scalp is used to it by now.

When I'm finished, I toss the brush and the now empty bowl into the trash. The hotel room I’m staying in reeks of the bleach, but it also stinks of other things that are probably better suited in a lab.

Then, I pick up my burning cigarette that's been resting in an ashtray on top of the toilet and inhale, still avoiding my reflection.

During the twenty minutes it takes for the chemicals to do their magic, I go through another cigarette and swallow down a quarter of a bottle of vodka. I really shouldn't be drinking, but a deep impenetrable sadness has a tight hold on me, and alcohol is the only thing that drowns it.

Then, I strip off my clothes and get in the cruddy shower to wash out the bleach. My body feels sluggish and heavy as I rinse, and I can't tell if it's from the vodka or because life feels so fucking abysmal.

Halfway through, the alcohol hits and my surroundings begin to swirl around me. It feels like I got trapped in a rocket and it's blasting off.

“Fuck,” I mutter, slapping my hand on the wall in an attempt to stabilize myself.

I crank off the water and stumble out of the shower, snatching a towel on the way out. I wrap it around me, the material nice and scratchy. So much better than the fluffy soft shit.

Cold droplets from my drenched hair trail down my body and cause goosebumps to rise. I tug on a white tank and sleep shorts, water from my half-dried body soaking into my clothes.

The stall is directly in front of the sink, so the moment I look up into the mirror, Kev is already staring back at me.

The only things he and I share are our blue eyes and broad smiles. He always favored our father, with stick-straight hair, round eyes, and a strong nose, while I favored our mother, with the wild curly hair and more elfish-like features.

Doesn’t matter, anyway. The eyes were always the worst part. I can’t see my own without seeing his, too.

“Fuck you,” I snarl at my—his—reflection. He grins, and that only serves to amplify my fury.

The half-empty bottle of vodka sits on the sink edge, and I swipe it off by the neck, taking a generous swig. The burn feels like acid going down my throat, but it forces back the vomit trying to climb up it.

“You know, sometimes I wish that when we were in Mom's stomach, I would've eaten you,” I say, then take another gulp.

I chuckle because that's also kind of gross.

But that stupid fucking grin is echoing my own, enough to make me snap.

Snarling, I grab the gun from the sink again, except this time, I point it directly at Kev. Tears well in my eyes, and his smile widens. He's still taunting me. I have no idea where he's gone, but he's always been good at tormenting me even when I'm alone.

“You don't get to do that,” I choke. “You don’t get to win. I win. Not you.”

My hand trembles violently as I glower at him, a tear slipping free and trailing down my cheek. He always got angry when I cried. Could never understand why he made me so sad.

Don't you love me, pipsqueak?

“No,” I sneer. “I hate you.”

You don't mean that.

“I HATE YOU!” I scream with all my might, feeling my face rush with blood and my chest crack open. I smash the gun's tip into the glass, right where his head is.

You only hate me because you're just like me. We're the same, pip. And the only one who will love you for you is me.

I'm shaking my head as the phantom in the mirror continues torturing me.

“You'll never let me go, will you?” I cry, my voice breaking from anguish and defeat.

I'm not considering my actions when I turn the gun on myself, the cold press of the barrel sinking into my temple. Kev's face contorts in rage, but I can't hear him anymore. The only thing I can hear is the loud ringing in my ears as my fingers dance over the trigger.

Would it be so bad if I was gone?

Who would even notice?

No one would care. I'm a small blip that will blink out almost as quickly as it appeared.